


Maybe Not Forever

by Carbynn



Series: Royed Week 2018 [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Al is literally the devil, Confessions Kind Of, Drinking Games, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Proofread only once by a dumbass (me), overuse of words that mean 'warm'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbynn/pseuds/Carbynn
Summary: Ed's leaving Central, but maybe not forever.





	Maybe Not Forever

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's technically day 3 of Royed Week but have a 4-hours-late day 2 instead. 
> 
> Day 2: Celebration/Stillness

“You’re not gonna manage it,” Ed says. “You never manage it. I don’t know why you even keep trying.”

“’M gonna do it this time,” Breda slurs, slamming two tankards of decidedly-not-beer down on the table. “I’ve been prastising. Practice-ing.”

“No amount of practice is gonna give you the kind of tolerance Havoc has. It’s just not possible.”

“I was weaned with grain alcohol,” Havoc declares, snatching up one of the tankards. “That’s how we do it out east.”

Ed’s pretty sure neither he nor Al were ever given anything stronger than juice as kids, but he’s sure not going to argue and delay watching Breda drink himself unconscious. “Right, well, on three then?”

Ed can hear Al’s heavy sigh behind him. “Why do you encourage them?”

Ed elects to ignore him and counts down, punctuating ‘three’ with a hard pound of his fist against the bar top, and Breda and Havoc get to work.

The bar nights have become a regular thing since the Promised Day. The first time had been a celebration of survival, pure and simple. They were alive, Father was gone, and Amestris was on track to get at least a _little_ better without Bradley at the helm of the shit ship. Against all odds, things had turned out relatively well and everyone had a lot to be grateful for.

It had taken some work to get Ed to go along with it, at first. Havoc had had to bodily drag him from the hospital room, at Al’s request, the traitor, to unglue him from his brother’s newly-corporeal side and man-handle him into the car, and he’d bitched almost the entire time until Breda had managed to get enough liquor in him to make him realize that he was actually having a good time. It had been a novel experience, that first time, having fun without a weight (both the metaphorical weight of his quest and the physical weight of an automail fucking arm,) on his shoulders, and Ed had found himself eager to repeat it.

Now, the bar nights were less of a celebration of survival and more of a weekly celebration of life in general. Al had made a fast recovery and had started joining them not long after the tradition had started, and even Hawkeye sometimes deigned to join them, although she never allowed herself to over-indulge, which was more than could be said for the rest of them at least some of the time. Ed had quit the military as soon as he’d been able to sign his name with his new arm, and having everyone together was a way to stay connected that Ed’s grateful to have.

The only person missing from the equation is Mustang.

He comes as infrequently as Hawkeye and always, _always_ ducks out early. Partly, Ed suspects Mustang’s relationship with alcohol might not be the healthiest and spending too much time in an alcohol-centered environment wears him down. Partly, Ed thinks maybe he’s the problem.

It’s no secret he and the bastard had never gotten along especially well. Ed had managed to develop a sort of grudging respect for him over the years, and in the months that followed the Promised Day, it’s been maturing into something a little bit more poignant.

He owes Mustang a hell of a lot. Owes him his life a few times over, and his brother’s life, and probably an entire body and an arm, too. The least he can do is thank him properly, but the opportunity never comes. Mustang avoids him as hard as Ed avoids Mustang, and even though they spend a lot more time in the same room now than they ever did when Ed worked under him, they repel each other like magnets turned the wrong way around.

It’s Ed’s last night in Central before he and Al take off back to Resembool, and Mustang isn’t even here. He can’t help but to be a little bit sour over it, even though he can hardly blame him considering all of the aforementioned magnetism, or lack thereof, but part of Ed had wanted to see him, to maybe work up some kind of guts and actually thank him, or at least speak to him beyond a few cordial words. It was his last chance to suck up his childish grudge and actually approach Mustang like an adult, and he’s been robbed of it.

Breda’s only halfway through his tankard when he slams it back down on the table. “I dunno how he does it,” he manages, throwing an arm towards Havoc in a half-hearted, drunken attempt at a gesture. “I give up. He’s bes-sed me again. Bes-ted me.”

Just like always, even though Breda’s quit, Havoc finishes the rest of his glass and slides it across the bar top with a flourish. “You can’t beat natural talent.”

“I’m pretty sure your liver’s going to beat your natural talent some day,” Al says, looking less than impressed. “You do this every week.”

Havoc just grins and pats his stomach somewhere that is more liver-adjacent than liver-centered. “I’m pretty sure that stone worked some magic in my guts too. I got a fresh start.”

Al seems unconvinced but doesn’t push the issue. “We should probably get going.”

The end of the drinking contest usually heralds the end of the bar night. Al loves sleep and is probably trying to make up for years without it, and Breda’s probably only got another good fifteen minutes left in him before he’s unconscious after said drinking contest, because for some reason he never seems to think to try knocking back an entire tankard of hard liquor before he’s already overindulged.

There are hugs all around, lots of back claps that’ll probably leave them both bruised, and repeated insistences that they write, that they call, that they come back to visit soon and often, and by the time they make it outside, Falman is struggling to support a very woozy Fuery and also Breda, whose fifteen minutes turned out to be more like five.

Ed isn’t that drunk. In fact, he’s tragically sober and he’s really kicking himself for not imbibing more, especially when he could have used the fact that he’s leaving in the morning to leverage a few free drinks out of the team, but it’s too late now and the night air does feel a lot nicer against his skin when it’s not red-hot from drink.

Inevitably, his thoughts stray to Mustang as he and Al pick their way down the street towards the little flat they’d rented after Al was released from the hospital. He really thought he’d be there, being all surly in the corner just like always, and he could cross over to him, spill his guts a little, and call it a fucking night. His absence was a wrench in his plans, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Why don’t you just go visit him?” Al asks finally, stopping short before they round the corner that’ll take them to the flat complex. “He doesn’t live far from here. If you’re just going to pout—“

“I’m not pouting!”

“Then you _are_ thinking about him.”

Al is too fucking clever by half, and Ed spares a second to wish that he’d turn his powers to good instead of evil. “I hate you.”

“Hate me later. Go talk to him.”

“It’s _late_.”

“It’s barely ten, and I don’t actually think he sleeps.”

“Yeah,” Ed mutters. “He probably just plugs himself into the wall and recharges.”

“ _Brother._ ”

Al has a look in his eyes like he’s ready to lock Ed out of the flat if he doesn’t bend to his will, and picking locks is a lot fucking harder without alchemy. “ _Fine._ But you better wait up for me, and if I’m not back in two hours, someone’s dead.”

The cold cast of dubious disdain over Al’s beautiful, flesh face almost makes Ed miss the armor. “I _won’t_ wait up, and don’t bother calling if you stay over.”

“Why the _fuck_ would I st—“

Al’s already walking away. “Goodnight, Brother!”

He’s such a little _shit_.

Ed starts off in the vague direction of Mustang’s stupid townhouse. He’d only been there once, right after the Promised Day, to hand-deliver his resignation on a Saturday afternoon because he couldn’t even chance waiting until Monday, so he hopes that both muscle and regular memory will guide him. If Al weren’t so astute, he’d just go trespass in a park for a few hours and claim he’d done his bidding, but Al could always tell when he was lying, much to Ed’s eternal agony.

Finally, Ed comes across a row of townhouses that looks somewhat familiar, and a potted pink begonia on the edge of the porch of the one at the end is even more familiar and Ed’s pretty certain it’s Mustang’s.

He steels himself as he ascends the four steps to the door and knocks.

Enough time passes that Ed thinks maybe he’s off the hook and Mustang’s already in bed, but then the door squeaks open. Mustang’s backlit by flickering light and he’s wearing some stupid, nerdy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks soft like this, and Ed doesn’t know where the fuck _that_ came from.

“Fullmetal,” Mustang says, surprise and puzzlement obvious in his tone. “What are you doing here?”

That’s a good fucking question. “Al made me come.”

Mustang’s bewilderment only seems to grow sharper. “Why?”

“Dunno. You weren’t at the bar.” The bastard’s face changes to something unreadable, the same cool mask Ed had stared into for years across his desk, and suddenly all of this seems like even worse of an idea than it was before, but he’s made it this far. “You gonna let me in?”

To his credit, Mustang doesn’t even hesitate before opening the door further and standing aside to grant Ed entry into the cozy sitting room he remembers from his last visit. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace, the source of the flickering light, and a glass on the coffee table with a small portion of amber liquid swimming behind the cut-crystal designs. Otherwise, the room is identical to what Ed remembers from the last time he was here.

“Would you like to have a seat?” Mustang asks cordially, building up an air of manners in what Ed can only assume is an attempt to smooth over how fucking weird this all is.

“No,” Ed says firmly, perching a hip against the edge of the plush sofa instead. He’s not planning on staying long. “Al ‘n I are leaving tomorrow,” he says as Mustang moves around from behind him to settle himself in an armchair.

The power dynamic of their positions shifts, but somehow Ed still feels like he’s the one sitting. The mask that is Mustang’s face is still firmly in place, as unreadable as ever. “Fuery mentioned.”

“Yeah. Well.” Ed’s kind of at a loss. His plan to approach Mustang had never included actual dialogue, a fatal flaw he is just now realizing. “I just thought you’d be there.”

“To be honest, I didn’t think you’d want me there.” Mustang’s eyes are sharp and the blankness on his face ripples and shifts into something equally unreadable. “I didn’t want to sour your fun.”

“That’s considerate,” Ed says, tapping his fingers against the back of the sofa. “You’re wrong though. Guess that’s why I’m here.”

“To tell me I’m wrong?”

“Just like old times, huh?” Ed cracks a grin, hoping to break some of the tension in the air between them. It doesn’t work. “Someone’s got to keep you honest.”

Honest. That’s a big word, and it haunts Ed’s view of Mustang in a way he doesn’t really know how to rationalize. Mustang himself, as most people close to him know, is a consummate dishonest type. There’s always more going on than meets the eye, and he’s always playing two games at once; one you think you’re winning, and one you’ve already lost. It’s why he’s been so successful, probably why he’s still alive, and it’s why, some day, he’ll be running this entire shit country.

Ed, on the other hand, has always worn his heart on his sleeve. Sure, he knows how to pretend when he needs to, and he knows better than to incriminate himself with truth, but subterfuge and subtlety have never been his strong suits. He doesn’t believe in holding back, doesn’t believe in hiding, doesn’t believe in locking feelings and opinions in a box and letting them rot there, and that’s why he has to talk to Mustang.

This shouldn’t be so hard.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Ed says, probably way too quickly. “You know. For. Everything. I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for some of the shit you did for me. Al definitely wouldn’t be.” Mustang looks like he’s about to interrupt but Ed has to get the rest of this out. “Yeah, you weren’t always the best person to look up to, or the most supportive, or even the most understanding, but you always had mine ‘n Al’s best interests at heart and I know you risked a lot to do what you did for us, and I just wanted to make sure you know that I know, and that I’m not ungrateful.”

If Mustang’s face changes, Ed doesn’t see it. He’s too busy inspecting the cuticles on his right hand spread out on the back of the sofa like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his life.

 “Thank you,” Mustang says quietly, and Ed’s not sure he can even puzzle out what exactly it is that he’s being thanked for.

“You’re welcome?”

Ed can feel Mustang’s eyes on him still, heavy and hot. “I suppose if we’re being honest, I owe you an apology.”

That manages to pull Ed’s eyes from his very fascinating cuticles back to Mustang’s face. “What?”

Mustang’s smile is nothing short of self-deprecating. “You said it yourself. I wasn’t much of a role model for you, and I both could have been and should have been more supportive. You were a child, albeit a mature one, and I owed you more than I provided, especially in the early days. By the time I realized how much I had let you down, your opinion of me was already set in stone.”

“Nothing’s set in stone,” Ed says before he can really comprehend what Mustang’s just said to him, but once his brain catches up he figures that was still an okay thing to say. “Everything always changes.”

“You’re too young to have to know that,” Mustang says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not that young, and it doesn’t matter, and you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m tired of backtracking. The past needs to stay where it is. It’s time to go forward.” It’s unconscious, but Ed’s eyes drop back to his hand as he finishes speaking. “Just, I’m not sure what going forward means.”

Mustang moves up off of the armchair and makes his way over to a small bar cart in the corner of the room, setting to work in preparing an identical glass of whatever it is on his coffee table. “Going forward can be difficult when you’ve been treading in place for so long,” he says. “I think we all struggle with that at some point in our lives, although not everyone has to deal with it in the same capacity or magnitude that you do.”

“I guess that’s why I’m going back to Resembool,” Ed says, looking back up at Mustang and watching the way his shoulders move under the fabric of that stupid sweater as he prepares the drink. “Seems counter-intuitive to go back since that’s where it all started, but everything’s different now. Maybe I can, I dunno. Maybe settle or something.”

“If you want my opinion on it, I don’t think you have it in you to settle.” Mustang brings the glass to the sofa and goes to pass it off to Ed. “You burn much too brightly to allow yourself to dim.”

Ed doesn’t know what the fuck that means and he doesn’t have time to figure it out because Mustang’s fingers brush his own when he hands him the glass and Ed’s so surprised by the contact that he startles and the glass falls to the floor. Ed’s expecting a flurry of activity, a swear, a rush for a towel, his own frantic apologies. Instead, silence lapses for so long that Ed’s considering just up and leaving, but then he’s startled by another light touch on the back of his hand, almost a caress, and he jumps so violently that he’s surprised his soul is still firmly seated in his body. His hand is burning where Mustang touches it, will probably burn for days if the intensity is anything to go by, but that’s insane because bare skin can’t burn bare skin that way.

More than enough time has passed for one of them to have woken up and moved away, but they’re still touching and Ed can’t figure out what the fuck is happening. Even when Mustang twists his hand around and laces his fingers together with Ed’s, even when Mustang draws him a little closer, even when Mustang’s other hand brushes so, so lightly over his shoulder that Ed questions if it even happened, Ed doesn’t move away and the heat doesn’t ease.

“Edward,” Mustang breathes, and everything in the world goes still except for the slow movement of Mustang’s hand from his shoulder to the curve of his jaw and the frantic pounding of his heart trying to escape the confines of his ribcage. “Would it be alright—“

“Yes. God yes. Just. Yes.” Ed isn’t even sure what he’s agreeing to, what the extent of it is, but he’s more than willing to find out.

Mustang’s lips are as hot as his hand and Ed has to curl his fingers in his sweater to keep himself grounded as one of Mustang’s hands migrates to his hair as he kisses him. It’s tender, more tender than Ed might have expected from him if he’d ever spared a minute to think of what it would be like to do this, and even the hand on the curve of his waist as Mustang guides him backwards to the couch is gentle.

Ed’s never done anything like this before. He’s expecting Mustang to straddle him or at least manhandle him a little bit, because that’s just how this stuff is supposed to work, at least he’s pretty sure it is until Mustang turns them both and settles beside him on the sofa, only breaking the kiss to brush a stray tuft of bang out of Ed’s eyes.

Ed’s breathing hard, and Mustang’s eyes are dark and his lips are shining with damp. “Edward,” he breathes again. “Do you know what you look like in firelight?”

The question takes Ed off guard. “What?” he manages.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Ed doesn’t know what the fuck to say to that, and really doesn’t know what the fuck to say to someone, anyone, your former commanding officer, or an all around bastard who isn’t actually, who just kissed you fucking senseless. What are you supposed to say to someone who apparently doesn’t expect an answer to the stupid fucking question he just asked and curls an arm around your waist to pull you in closer? What do you say to someone when you’re tucked against their side like something precious, face buried in a _stupidly, illegally_ soft sweater?

What do you say when everything slides into place and you feel _right_ for maybe the first time in your entire mistake-ridden life?

He elects not to say anything at all. The only sound in the room is the sound of the logs crackling in the fire and the soft, whisper-quiet sound of his and Mustang’s breathing. It’s a sharp counterpoint to his night so far, this still, fragile quiet, and he won’t allow himself to break it just yet even though it will have to break, have to _shatter_ , because just like everything changes, everything also falls apart.

What do you say when you know you have to leave?

The clock is a menace, ticking away silently on the mantle, bringing him closer to morning and the train and Resembool. It’s almost like another cosmic ‘fuck you,’ leading him to this warm contentment only to tear him away from it. Not that there’s any guarantee that this is something he gets to keep. Ed can’t even begin to fathom Mustang’s motivations for any of this, and he knows better, isn’t naïve enough to assume that he isn’t feeling this in a vacuum. Mustang’s got a reputation, and maybe this is just an extension.

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” Mustang says finally, piercing the silence with his low tone.

“Yeah, that’s a thing people do sometimes. Guess you wouldn’t know.” It’s out of Ed’s mouth before he can even process it’s an insult, but Mustang just laughs, and they’re close enough that Ed can feel the vibrations. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

Mustang hums and strokes his fingers over the hem of Ed’s shirt, just barely managing to avoid touching skin. “Leaving forever?”

That was the plan, and always had been. Get Al’s body back, regain a few limbs, and live out the rest of his days in Resembool. Objectively speaking, it’s a bit of a short-sighted plan. There is a very real chance that he will completely lose his mind out in the middle of nowhere for the rest of his life. He’s spent so long moving, that he’s not sure he knows how to stay still.

He has to go back for now. Take Al back, spend some long-overdue time with Winry and Pinako and just… get away for a little while. But maybe not forever.

“I guess it doesn’t have to be.”

Mustang’s fingers finally manage to work their way under his shirt, and the heated trail the pads of his fingertips leave over his hipbone sink into his core and warm him from within. “I’ll still be here when you come back.”

Ed has to crane his neck to get a look at Roy’s face from where the side of his face is resting on his shoulder. “Does that mean you want me to come back? Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Mustang. I don’t know what the fuck this is.”

“You don’t have to know anything for me to want you to come back, Edward.” Mustang’s voice is a low, soft murmur that oozes with sincerity and feeling. It’s something Ed’s never heard from him before, but he knows he can trust it. “In the mean time, if you like, you’re welcome to stay the night.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’d like that.”

Ed’s jostled by a little ripple of movement and then the blanket that was draped over the back of the sofa settles over the both of them and Mustang readjusts so that they’re reclining against each other. It’s still and soft and quiet, and this isn’t anything like Ed expected the night to turn out but he can’t say he’s really that upset by the change in plans.

The glass is still on the floor where it fell when Ed dropped it and the stain in the rug is going to be a bitch and a half to scrub out later, and the specter of Al’s smug face across from his on a train for _hours_ (how is the little shit always so _right_ all the time?) hovers in the distance, but nothing can touch them under that blanket, and the quiet contentment is enough to carry them through the night.


End file.
